


They Can't Take That Away From Me

by WanderingTrails



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Basically I changed a bunch of stuff to have it make more sense, Blood and Gore, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, I like them as a concept but I am really tired of the weird apologism and glorification around them, M/M, Medical Procedures, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Survivor Guilt, Synth Sole Survivor, Unconventional Format, a lot of fucked up things happen at the institute, and kinda graphic, bc the plot of fo4 is whack, brotherhood of steel is shown as a flawed organization, did I mention im a horror writer... yeah that explains a lot, lots of regret, mostly painkillers, references to old lore from fo1 and 2 everyone forgot about, some body horror with synths, talking about feelings, that are mostly accurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingTrails/pseuds/WanderingTrails
Summary: Really rough work in progress. It will take me awhile to finish this story. I'll update this note when I'm ready.
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Male Sole Survivor





	1. Main Menu

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: please don't click "next chapter" to read this story. It won't help you.
> 
> Allow me to explain. This story is written as a series of connected memories. When a word is highlighted in blue as a link, clicking it will take you to the associated memory, and that may also have a few links, branching outwards. Feel free to read as many or as few of these as you like. 
> 
> The important, chronological story beats or "files" are contained in chapter one, as a table of contents. If you ever get lost clicking links, come back to chapter one to find your place again. Each "file" will have the important scenes that tell a coherent story and move the plot forward. All other links can get off topic, be in non chronological order, contain a poem or an interview or a list of experiments, and generally get a bit weird. 
> 
> If you click "next chapter" these small scenes and memories will be delivered to you in a less connected, strange order. Although, that could be an interesting way to experience it, if you so choose.
> 
> Thank you for indulging me this strange format. I hope it enhances the experience of looking through a person's memories, rather than being weird and frustrating. Criticism is welcome.

Everything was white.

The lights burned so brightly he couldn’t see. Couldn’t think. The searing pressure of the lights overhead pounded into his brain. And the sound- the constant, droning buzz, a dull vibration he could feel in his head, drilling into him, digging deeper-

He tried to distract himself. Squeeze his eyes so tight it would block everything out- but no, nothing could. Nothing could. It burned through his eyelids.

Other sensations, then. It smelled citrusy and acidic, unpleasantly strong. Too much cleaning solution, like someone was hiding something, cleaning the same spot in the room over and over. He wondered, vaguely, if they would ever get the blood off the crisp white floor tiles.

It climbed inside his chest, settling there heavily. Lemons didn’t exist anymore. That was the only thought he could hold onto, as he coughed and gagged on the smell, the smell that covered up the things they were doing in this white white room- there were no lemons, so this couldn’t be happening.

Metal dug into his hands, holding him down. Leather straps would be better not to cut off patient’s circulation, and to avoid damage, but. Why should they care. It didn’t matter how much he struggled and cut his own wrists against the restraints, they would just fix it when they were done with him. There was no getting out.

There was no getting out.

Panic was setting in, now. Settling in with the blood and the lemon in his lungs, too heavy to cough it all out. He thrashed his head away, away from the light- but his body was locked down, immobile, and there was nowhere to go besides. It seemed a cruel reality that they hadn’t drugged him, sedated him for the procedure. Was that too much to ask for? To do it gently in his sleep, when there was no way to panic, no way to struggle against the inevitability of what would happen? Did they want him to feel fear, to be strapped to a table and hyperventilating, to know what it meant?

It was much simpler than that, really. They didn’t care, because he wouldn’t remember it, so it was like it never happened.

The buzzing was getting louder. The light, brighter. Pressure built behind his eyelids, bursting with pain. He wanted to struggle, to say something, to prove that he was alive and this moment would matter even if no one remembered it.

Sure, he wouldn’t die. His heart would go on beating, and his soul- if he had one, would remain in this body, dictating its actions, moving it around. But without his memories, he would cease to be. It was a death of self. To lose everything that you are, to become a blank slate, to become a stranger in your own body.

It wasn’t rational to be afraid. There would be no pain, there would be no trauma. Just an emptiness he wouldn’t be able to place, unable to feel sadness over something he did not know he lost. And yet he struggled, because if he died like this, if he couldn’t get out, then what would happen to-

All it took was a sharp, piercing sensation in the base of his neck.

All his muscles relaxed instantly. He was weightless, drifting on calm ocean waters. The brightness of the room dimmed slowly, turning grey. The sharpness of the moment faded, like a camera losing focus. The smell of the room seemed to dissipate, as did the cold of the metal, until it all melted away, into a velvet, cradling blackness.

...

ROBCO INDUSTRIES UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM  
COPYRIGHT 2075-2077 ROBCO INDUSTRIES  
-Server 1-

Booting…

…

…

…

================================================================

Warning!

You are attempting to access a secure network. Failure to provide verifiable credentials will result in lethal security measures. Do you wish to continue?

================================================================

>Y

…

Please enter the name of the project you wish to access.

>Project Black Light

ERROR- File not found

================================================================

Warning! Failure to provide verifiable credentials will result in lethal security measures. Please carefully enter the name of your project.

======================================================================

>Project Blacklight

…

…

Please enter your password.

********

…

…

Verified. Welcome back, [Director]. 

[README]

[[File 1]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565460/chapters/65042326#workskin)

[File 2]

[File 3]

[file 4]

[file 5]

[f$&%#-]

File corrupted. Data transfer incomplete. 

>run diagnostic


	2. File 1

Grant made sure to keep the radio off.

The plea for help troubled him in the moments in between. During the day, he focused on finding clean water, something to eat, not getting shot or torn apart, and once he had a place to sleep he had to secure the area and set up some defenses. But when he wasn’t bleeding or starving or sleeping, there were times of quiet, times when he thought about the signal, and the people who had called out for help into the vast, uncaring void because they didn’t know what else to do.

The world was emptier now than it had ever been. Grant had learned to navigate its nonsensical construction, and more importantly, had learned not to expect anything less than his harsh reality. Everything he knew was dead, and all the accomplishments humanity had made amounted to nothing. There was no deeper meaning behind his suffering. There was a certain comfort in the knowledge that he was not being punished for participating in the end of the world, or that his struggles would lead him to his destined path. No, bad things happened to people for no real reason, because that was just how the world worked. 

The people on the radio would die, because all the wasteland did was kill. And that was that.

Grant reminded himself of this over and over again as he hauled the heavy carcass to his makeshift campsite. He had taken shelter in the shade of an overpass, nestled behind a hill where he could remain unseen by passersby following the road signs. It was rare to spot another person, rarer still to survive the encounter, but Grant was wary of taking chances anymore. 

The doe's body lolled limply through the dirt, its primary head staring at him with a judgmental gleam in it's eyes. Two smaller, more withered heads were plastered to the same neck, with antlers sprouting out of several eye sockets, so their expression was harder to determine. The car door Grant was using as a sled got caught on it's fifth leg, awkwardly jutting from the same hip bone as the primary leg. He paused to make sure his rope was tied correctly around the empty space where the car's window would be, to evenly distribute the weight as he dragged the dead deer across the wasteland. it's stupid legs kept getting stuck in the hole, but Grant couldn't carry a whole deer by himself, and he didn't want to slaughter it here lest something follow his bloody trail.

He supposed it wouldn't matter if he abandoned his campsite.

Daylight was fleeting, and a campfire would not go unnoticed. Anyone on the overpass would see the smoke. He was screwed anyway. 

Grant's hand hovered over the radio dial, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it. Instead he began hacking away at the doe's body, severing the heads in a mess of gutting and guesswork. The species' anatomy differed on factors he couldn't understand, and often organs and muscles were in places that felt incorrect. He did know that the stunted legs were full of small, thin bones that shattered easily, and that the four primary legs were mostly edible, and that was enough.

Grant removed one of the back legs and brought it back to his campsite to cook, returning to the scene of the kill with an old shopping cart complete with shitty wheels that wanted to turn right constantly. He finished his grisly work of cutting up the deer and placing it into the shopping cart, a long strand of intestine falling out of one of the holes in the bottom.

He ate his charred deer leg in silence. He knew he needed to move on. Nothing grew near the roads save for a particularly hardy weed, which had been violently torn up by the herd Grant was following. All that remained was the bitter yellow flowering parts the deer spit out, which would take root and begin a new cycle of growth in the coming season. Grant estimated one more crop before the cold set in. The old greenhouse was too toxic to go anywhere near, and Grant had watched strangely colored rodents build their burrows underneath it for shelter. He supposed he could try to hunt mole rats for awhile, but he knew that he was just delaying the inevitable. It was time to go.

34.8

A blare of static and desperation.

Grant listened to the message again.

-"We have supplies-money, a reward-"  
  


"Don't say that! What if some raiders take the chance to come knocking? Then we'll be screwed."-  
  


-"If I don't put out a distress signal we'll be screwed for sure!"  
  


"So, what, some scavver is gonna crawl out of an alley and take care of these ferals?"-

-“I already tried calling the brotherhood. It’s been days, they aren’t coming.”

“Obviously you’re doing something wrong then.”-  
  


-"Shut up! Just let me do this. It’s live right now. Everyone can hear you being a dick."  
  


"No one is listening."-  
  


-"This is an SOS to any capable wastelanders in range. We're pinned down at the Cambridge police station. We need backup immediately. You will be compensated for your efforts."  
  


"Or they could decide not to help us and swoop in for the loot later."-  
  


-"I have the mic. Go bleed somewhere else. Oh shi-"

Grant looked at the city in the distance. He could still hear gunfire if he listened close enough.

He wasn’t sure what drove him here now. Some self destructive instinct that made him investigate gunshots instead of run from them.

The radio frequency was being broadcast from the old police station. Grant had never been to Cambridge in his past life, and he made an effort to avoid clusters of buildings where he couldn't see what might be coming at him from every angle. This was uncharted territory, But Grant knew several things that would get him through this.

1.) Places that would have been heavily populated Pre-War were now filled with ferals.

2.) Ferals bled to death, same as the people they used to be.

3.) Most of them had lost their teeth in the past couple hundred years, so they ripped their prey open with fingernails. A scratch or bite could kill in a matter of days from severe infection.

4.) A single feral was easy to kill, but they were dangerous in groups.

5.) They were attracted to the smell of fresh blood, and loud sounds.

Grant pushed his shopping cart of gore down the main highway, the sensation surreal. The heft of the shopping cart and the sound of the wheels against the ground was so familiar, and yet the acrid smell of blood was overpowering, and the clink of alcohol bottles whenever he hit a bump reminded him of what he planned to do. Night was falling, a cool mist settling over the wasteland, and Grant was as ready as he could be.

As he approached Cambridge, the drone of the laser weaponry grew louder, a sizzling static that became a pounding headache in Grant's head. The bright flashes against the night sky would surely draw more ferals here. The harder these survivors fought, the worse their situation would become. 

His hand drifted to his medical bag, considering his options. No, it would only make this worse. He needed to be in his right mind to navigate a situation like this, where a single bite was deadly. It might be easier or hurt less if he took something, but he needed to feel fear, to feel pain. They were his only allies now. 

He would be slow, methodic. Use the distraction to keep from being seen, and work his way towards the center while keeping his back pressed to anything he could find. Grant drew his axe; a shitty weapon made from a tire iron and a sharp piece of metal glued together. No ammo, and he couldn't afford the noise anyway, so this would have to do.

Staying close to the street, Grant threw a piece of meat out of his shopping cart, drawing out any stragglers who might be lurking too close to him. A few ferals shambled towards it, and he sunk his weapon into the back of the first one he saw, ripping it out with ease from the soft rotted flesh. Greenish-black blood oozed from the wound, thick and sluggish, and with a gurgle the creature collapsed onto the ground. Another feral took notice and lunged towards him, mouth open in a toothless snarl. Grant forced his forearm into the creature's mouth, slamming it to the ground. As its gums slipped uselessly against his armor, Grant kneeled over it, a mixture of pity and disgust making his stomach churn. He couldn't afford to think about anything except the next kill, and the next, so he dispatched the thing and tried to move on.

Once he had picked off the stragglers and was sure nothing would come up behind him, Grant pressed forward, sticking close to a tanker truck flipped sideways across the street. The shopping cart was starting to draw some attention away from the police station. Grant fished around his bag for a lighter, Knocking a feral back with a shoulder check and lopping off its arm to keep it away. Once he had finally found the fucking thing, kicking another feral away, Grant shoved the lighter into one of the bottles he had laid in the cart. A flash of light broke the eerie darkness. He yanked out the bottle and pushed the shopping cart as hard as he could in the direction of the police station, reflections of the fire drawn in the trail of blood.

He blocked another attack, hacked a neck and then a shoulder. His section of the street was empty now, with most of the ferals either already lying dead in the street, or huddled around the police station, with a good chunk of them wandering over to the shopping cart. It was much easier prey than whoever was holed up in the police station, after all. Grant threw the molotov, ducking behind the truck as the explosion lit up the street. Smoke from the writhing, burning bodies would make it harder to see him, but Grant hadn't counted on how hard it would be to witness it, to choke on the smell.

The fire would draw out whatever ferals remained, giving Grant a sense of just how bad the situation was. The town could have contained hundreds, but for now it looked as though most had wandered long ago leaving a few dozen. He kept to the road, always moving, hacking off limbs when he could, whittling down the ferals until he was heaving with exhaustion, covered in rotten blood. When he lifted his head to look around, it was hard to see the road for all the bodies. No surprise, really. The shooting had been going on for days.

As he headed for the entrance, Grant chopped off a few heads that happened to be in his path to make sure they wouldn’t get up again. He craned his neck up at the rooftop. It was too dark to make out a proper figure, but Grant knew enough to be wary. He wanted his reward, a place to sleep. That was it. He told himself that, anyway. That inescapable _thing_ that gnawed at him knew better.

The door to the police station had been barricaded unsuccessfully, half torn from its hinges. That must be why the survivors were up on the roof, in case the ferals overpowered them and managed to get inside. Or if they ran out of ammo. They should be safe up there, although without something else to attract the ferals' attention they would be trapped. 

Maybe that was what the signal was for. Get some wastelander to wander too close to the group. Use them to lure the ferals away from the door just long enough to slip away.

There was just one problem with that plan. They had left all their supplies downstairs.

Entire cases of food. One box of fusion cores. Extra armor and material for repairs. Medicine. Clean water. There was even a few clips of ammo they must have left in their panic. And while they decided if it was safe to come down, Grant had plenty of time to take it.

Grant could have died trying to help them. Their plan might have counted on it, with no intention of paying him back. Or they may have been good people, trapped in a desperate situation with no other options. He had yet to meet any. The safe bet was to take some of the supplies and go. Not all of it, if some shred of consciousness still felt like it was wrong, like he wasn’t a raider, like they didn’t deserve it. But some food and water, maybe a gun that wasn't a piece of shit, a few bandages. Only what was owed.

He paced through the hallways, making sure they were clear, checking his corners and behind each doorway. His heart rate increased, ears ringing with radio static. Stairs leading up to the roof. Just take one step at a time. Then another. A metal hatch in the ceiling. Pounding static.

It wasn't too late to run away. 

He reached out.


End file.
